Wilted Blooms
by ExOrienteLux94
Summary: There are places in the far North where unyielding darkness hides. The snowy plains and howling mountains of Northrend are one such place. A tale that comes in three parts exploring what could have been had things between Arthas and Jaina turned out somewhat differently. Oneshot.


_**Author's note:**_ _Recently, I have been reintroduced to the expansive lore of the Warcraft universe through a friend of mine. I've only briefly played the games, but have always found the expansive lore quite fascinating, despite the numerous and sometimes somewhat deep potholes. This story actually started out as a brief character study of Jaina (because mages and Dalaran are awesome and all, the ptsd syndromes, vengeful revenge mixed in with a diluted sense compassion and stuff), but later certain ideas started acting up and stuff hit the fan. Let's just say that I got into reading Christie Golden as a fun past-time on the bus to work. Sorry if the timeline might seem a bit jumbled; I really tried to make it work logically, but had to take some artistic freedom in the end. As someone will most likely ask, the poem at the end is original work. The character of Merwenn is also an original creation._

 _Anyways, enjoy! :)_

 **Wilted Blooms**

A storm battered the streets and walls of Theramore with wind, rain and the loud clang of thunder. It had come unexpected; the day had been graced by a soft summer breeze and streaming golden sunlight. The skies had ripped open without warning once dark had fallen, murky cloud hiding the stars from view. The city grew dark as lanterns were extinguished from the windows; mothers kissed their children goodnight and fathers ruffled their sons' hair as families went about ending the already long day. Yet up above, behind one of the topmost windows of the tall tower that looked over the harbour, candles continued to burn. The moaning of thunder and the constant pounding of the rain against the roof drowned out the chaos reigning beyond the misted window glass.

The scene within the quarters of the ruler of the newly founded city was a gruesome one. There was a sense of panic in the air. It was too early and she was bleeding too much. The midwife had been called four hours prior, and she had arrived with an army of servants at her beck and call. Water had been hauled up the many flights of stairs and heated till boil; fresh towels had been scoured from the laundry and the kitchens. The smell of blood was heavy in the air and the smoke from the many candles stung her eyes making them water. But the worst of it was the pain.

Her grip on the bed frame was iron; had she paid it any mind, she would have sworn the wood splintered and creaked forebodingly beneath her grip. Tears and sweat clouded her vision as convulsions rocked her slight frame. Her cries of agony and colourful cursing were drowned out by the encouraging goading and demands of the midwife to keep pushing. In the end, the world blacked out for a moment before crashing violently back into shaky focus with a high pitched wail.

This world truly must be a cruel one, for children come into it screaming.

"Congratulations, m'lady. It's a beautiful girl!" The midwife beamed down at her, yet the woman's smile did not quite reach her aged, wrinkle-lined eyes. The child was unexpected, a bastard for all appearances. The cord was cut with a heated blade. The midwife's eyes softened as she wiped the squirming creature free of slime and crimson.

Sweat and tears of pain fogged up her vision as Jaina stared at the still bloody, grimy and wet bundle huddled in the woman's arms. Blotchy skin, short limbs, an oversized head and a scrunched up snout; there was nothing beautiful about it. A blanket was produced and the mother found herself holding her daughter for the first time. The weight was unexpected and Jaina found her arms trembling slightly under the strain. She stared at the creature in her arms, bewildered and speechless. "Will you not name the child, m'lady?" The crone inquired gently as not to spook the child. "Perhaps after a flower, for she truly is a pretty one."

It was then that the woman truly looked down at the squirming, warm bundle in her arms. Its skin was pink, not unlike the young piglets she had once seen in Andorhal. The face was scrunched up into wrinkles but softened as the mother caressed its soft, wet cheek. Soon the wailing turned into gurgling giggles and squealing. The mother went to stroke the new-born's head that held only a few soggy strips of golden blond hair. She played with them, like she had once, a long time ago, played with another's locks, curling them around her prodding fingers. Sea green eyes sparkled up at her. Jaina flinched almost dropping her daughter. In a flash, she was in another place in another time, her gaze meeting those very same eyes that held so much love and care… and then she watched that passion burn away into deep hatred and anger.

 _The winter sky above them was alight with icy stars. 'Beautiful, isn't it?' Sea-green eyes twinkled in the moonlight._

"…m'lady, a name for the child?" The gentle, prodding question brought her crashing back to the present. Her arms were shaking and she was feeling faint, perhaps from the awful smell that still permeated the room. The loss of blood probably did nothing to help the matters. Judging from the deep crimson that coloured her once white sheets, she must be as pale as a ghost.

The child was squirming once again, restless in wanting and need of her mother's attention. Jaina did not look at the child, she did not dare. His eyes stared up at her, crinkled in confusion and disappointment. Her mouth felt dry and her throat clenched uncomfortably.

"…No."

It was hours later that she felt strong enough to stand. Her skin felt grimy, covered in cold sweat and blood. A bath was drawn for her, warm and steaming. A hint of lavender lingered in the air amongst the still persistent tang of iron. Unsteady hands clasped the rim of the tub as she lowered herself into the bath. The heat made her face flush and her head spin. Dimly, she was aware of hands caressing her tresses, rubbing them with soap and rinsing with scalding hot water. Her eyelids felt droopy and heavy as the rising steam from the bath water misted her sight.

 _She was in the throne room again. The scene before her was a familiar one; one she had visited for what seemed like a hundred times since the news of the prince's betrayal had reached Theramore. She could almost imagine that it is real: the worn marble floor and the walls of intricately carved limestone, the fluttering silk hangings and the heavy velvet curtains that warded the alcoves and balconies watching over the grand chamber. Pale sun light ricocheted from shiny, ceremonial plate armour as the royal guard stood tall at their posts. Yet all and the former king lounging upon the throne, were but shades of their former selves, simply shadows of a memory of a half dream. Jaina kept her eyes peeled upon the tall doors down the hall, not daring to glance at the face of Terenas Menethil: a man broken by the apparent demise of his beloved son and heir. The man who was now no more than a shade of the holy paladin that had once been, the faithful husband and the loving father. Yet the former spirit had flickered to life at the news of his son's miraculous return. Jaina yearned to remember the cheeks crinkled from joyous laughter and the wise, knowing blue eyes, the sure, tall stature, and the warm, yet commanding presence._

 _Absently, her dreaming mind wandered to what could have been. That Winter's Veil, when she and Arthas danced in the candle lit halls of the citadel, the walls echoing with music and warmth despite the icy season. She remembered her beautiful dress of flowing fabrics and his cautious stature as he precariously spun her across the floor. His shaking hands on her waist and his nervous smile. She could have been a queen, worn a crown of braided gold and ruled a kingdom at his side. They could have married under the apple trees and ridden off towards the sunset, had a house on a green hill and children with his blue eyes and her golden hair._

 _The room materialized once again. With a bang, the doors were flung open, startling a guarding pair of sentinels. For a fleeting moment, joyous cheer and bells and rose petals that fluttered in filled the dim room. Then it was all locked away once more. Arthas and his two generals strode forth. The prince's boots clanged heavily; his long velvet cloak dragged in his wake, the hood shielding his face from her view. Jaina failed to find her breath, dreading the inevitable that was to occur. The three came to kneel at the foot of the throne, Arthas leaning upon his cursed, icy blade. Moments slipped by. Something was different._

 _And suddenly, Falric's back seemed a little too hunched and Marwyn's figure too slight of stature. Time appeared to stand as still as it could in the dream world. Dreading, yet curious, Jaina shifted to get a better look at the three. None seemed to notice her, as she gazed at the frost-bitten, pale face of her lover, grieving for his bleached hair and eyes that had lost their sparkle. Yet it was Falric's face that made her want to scream in terror. It was no man that stared out from beneath the general's garb, but the face of an orc with a white skull marring his features. The face was ugly and deeply lined from age, skin green and eyes a crazed red from demon blood. A leer twisted the orc's features, making the sharp teeth stand out. The scarlet eyes flashed, pinning onto the prince. The orc shaman took a step forward with grace and strength unbecoming of his apparent age. He did not get far before Marwyn stepped onto his path suddenly._

 _The orc snarled savagely, flinging the slight, short form onto the floor with a powerful strike. The hood slipped off, exposing a face. Yet it was not Marwyn under the cloak. The face was that of a young boy. Blond hair plastered to the skull with cold sweat. The face was angled and gaunt as if starved and the skin was sickly pale. The child whimpered pitifully, casting a pleading, desperate look at the still kneeling prince. In a last ditch attempt, the boy attempted to scramble onto his feet, yet they appeared too unsteady to bear his weight. Without thinking, Jaina rushed forward to help him, scooping him up under the arms. She was surprised when her hands didn't faze through. The child was light and cold in her arms, like a fleeting presence. Small hands clung onto her arms in a death grip. Suddenly the boy smiled, colour returning to his cheeks. Sea green stared up at her own. Shocked, Jaina flinched, taking a step back from the haunting gaze of the boy. Something was crushed under her feet. She looked down upon a ground covered in frosted, violet rose petals._

She sat on fresh linens, clad in her silky night robe of mageweave. Fingers traced the intricate embroidery decorating the sleeves, picking at loose strands. The rain outside splattered the windows with water. The sound was usually soothing to her ears; now, it only made her shiver and her heart beat faster. Memories of murky skies and rain, and streets culled in flames danced mockingly in front of her eyes.

' _This entire city must be purged.'_

She felt filthy. Her skin itched and her chest ached. In a thoughtless moment she shed the night robe, discarding it in a heap onto the floor. The water was already cold and prickling as she ducked under. She scrubbed furiously until her skin turned raw and red and bleeding.

There's a ship at the docks, headed across the sea to Stormwind come first light. The owner was a trader of fine fabrics, from soft silks to sheets of shimmering mooncloth and rolls of warm windwool. Jaina knew this; she had met the man and his sister just two days ago when pursuing his wares and making a few purchases for her own wardrobe. It's an old family business, she had been told. The man had two sons and a wife back in the Eastern Kingdoms, thought he had told her somewhat awkwardly that they had always wanted a daughter. She recalled him friendly, with warm, soft eyes. The child would be loved; she had no doubt.

A string of pale light began to grow in the east as she embraced the child one last time. Thankfully, the early morning air still held a memory of mid-summer's warmth. She found a sheltered place between the wooden crates that littered the deck, safe from the breezy wind that accompanied the dawn. She bundled the woollen blankets tightly around the child's sleeping form. It was then that a tiny hand wrapped around her finger, its hold soft, yet tight.

Once again, Jaina felt her heart break. No tears were shed by her slightly trembling form.

For she was the widow of a dead lover and the mother of a dead, stillborn child. Sometimes, lies are gentler than the truth; dreams are just guileless fantasies for those who endure in what is called reality. Her past and hopes lay across the sea, in wooded glens and blooming gardens with tall apple trees. She steeled herself, prying away the grasping fingers of the stranger with her golden hair and His blue-green eyes.

And so the mother turned away, disappearing into the bustle of a dawning day.

It was still early morning when the anchors were raised and the white washed sails were lowered to catch the northbound bound breeze. Before mid-morning, tall masts disappeared beyond the horizon as the ship sailed towards Darnassus prior to heading west. She would not hear of the storm that drove the ship off course, nor of the fierce waves that crashed the hull against the stony shores of Northrend. No news would be told of the crew's survival, or the fight against the elements that ensued as they attempted the desperate trek for safety and warmth. On the northern shores, lay the wreckage of rotting ships; unheard voices whispered and shrieked as they staggered through a half-built settlement of sorts, blanketed in black ash and softly falling snow. Wolves stalked the shadows of the forest, howling; the harsh wind fought back the campfire with vengeance.

There are places in the far North where unyielding darkness hides. The snowy plains and howling mountains of Northrend are one such place.

It was an unexpected presence skirting by the edges of his consciousness that stirred Uther from his trance. A sense of warning, bidding him to act. It was with astonishment that he materialized in the path of a young child. The girl's outstretched hand reaching for the icy blade told most of the tale, though the paladin is flung back by the child's appearance. The melding of two ghosts, yet this one was living and real. Uther felt a shiver wreck his incorporeal form.

"What is your name, child?" The question was simple enough, innocent in its nature, yet the girl found the answer difficult beyond comprehension. ' _A name?'_ She remembered being called _the child_ or _the girl_ by the man who was not her father, with hair as white as snow, clad in the spiky armour. Or _brat_ if it's a sneering Falric telling her off or _little bird_ when it was Marwyn herding her back to her room. Yet none of those felt quite like the right answer. There was something that gnawed at the edges of her mind, not quite within her reach; she had had another name once, briefly. There had been a lady who had been warm and soft and smiling and a man who had smelled of salt. They had called her something other, in a time before the world had become cold and blue.

Disappointed, the child shook her head. The action made the paladin frown.

And so the child was finally named. Not by her mother, nor her father, but by a ghost of a long lost paladin. Merwenn Menethil smiled widely. And for the first time in a long time, Uther the Light-Bringer felt a sliver of Light slip into the dark abyss of Icecrown citadel. For a moment, there was hope and he felt whole.

It was that innocent smile that helped him begin to find forgiveness, to finally shed the shackles of self-blame and guilt. And when the child returned to him time and time again, he told her tales of an ancient kingdom far across the sea, of a righteous king and a loyal, benevolent prince. He told her of a day filled with falling rose petals and deeply ringing bells and pride, as the prince took up the mantle of a paladin of the Light. What followed were endless stories of battle prowess and acts of justice heralded by the blessings of the Light. To keep her spirit bright for better days, he reasoned to himself. It was with these memories that the broken soul began to heal.

On one of their meetings, the child asked an innocent question about her mother, enthralled as she was with the bright, golden lady in the paladin's stories. She knew the bright, gentle lady, with sun-kissed yellow hair and sea green eyes, who was brave and caring and just. The bright lady was a skilled mage, a leader and a trusted companion who supported and adored the golden prince. All this she knew, yet her own mother's face was naught but a blank. Some days, she liked to stare at the mirror in her room and imagine what the woman would look like. Lord Uther's only answer was a bitter-sweet smile that played only too briefly on the paladin's lips.

The child did not notice the shadow that flickered across the walls; not expected, nor wholly unwelcome.

' _Why lie to the child, Paladin?'_

' _It is no lie, simply the better half of a tale.'_

' _She has Her hair and His eyes. She is the light that you forsook, the hope that you abandoned.'_

' _Hope lies. And there are places the Light does not reach.'_

' _The stars need no day light to shine brightly, Arthas.'_

The first time Merwenn Menethil saw a flower was on her seventh birthday. Wandering through the unoccupied halls of Icecrown, the child strayed onto the snow covered grounds. She had heard talk of colourful lights upon the night skies, different from the pale stars she had glimpsed from behind her frosted window. She wanted to see the dragons and wyrms come to life from the pages of books she had read; the flowing rivers and the strange plants Uther had told her were called trees. The wind blasted cold and the snow came down in heavy, sticky clumps. She stuck close to the wall to escape the worst of the numbing battering of the elements. It was then that she came upon it.

The sudden blob of colour stuck out starkly from the surrounding blanket of white. Curious, she drew closer, kneeling down despite the biting cold that bit at her knees, for a better look. It was a flower of some sort, she recognized. Merwenn had seen flowers before, among the weeds and grasses that the alchemists used for their broths and potions. Thought none had been as large nor beautiful as this one. She stuck out a finger to caress the pale petals, wiping away a layer of frost to reveal a light purple hue. The layer of frost made the flower feel stiff in her grasp, yet underneath the petals were soft as silk. Enthralled, Merwenn reached for the stem, eager to further inspect her discovery. She yelped out in pain as something pricked her finger. Winching, she stuck the slightly bleeding digit into her mouth.

Marwyn found her at the gardens hours later, blue lipped and shivering, sitting in the middle of a patch of winter roses. The cold did nothing to diminish the child's joy and wonder.

The frozen wastes of Northrend are no place for a child. It began with a sudden fever that came in the night. It made the child shiver and her skin glisten with cold sweat.

And thus, the father made a deal, once more, with the Devil.

He felt at odds; like he didn't belong, yet was obliged to stay. Or perhaps he wanted to belong. He felt vulnerable yet light lacking the weight of his armour. The father took a seat at the end of the bed, flinching as the metal frame creaked under his weight. It took a moment for his shoulders to relax. He gazed at his daughter's pale face, her cheeks flushed and forehead smeared with cold sweat. It left him feeling frighteningly hollow.

The child was feverish and disoriented no doubt, as she muttered of flowering meadows and rose petals. Perhaps the madness of the walls had finally addled her mind. Regardless, the father complied. At first the words felt clumsy on his tongue, foreign and half-forgotten. The words spun longing tales of sun-kissed fields that turned golden ere harvest and lush emerald forests that sung with the summer breeze. And of the wide, sparkling oceans beyond the hills that grew into mountains, and of ships with white sails and the wonders they brought.

The child's eyes slid closed, yet the father stayed at her side, spinning a tale of a horse and his boy long after the candles burnt down to a pool of wax. A shaking hand reached forth to pet the golden head. His eyes remained dry, for monsters do not weep for the innocent, and the dead have no tears to spare.

 _Sometimes, we fail to appreciate the things we have, until they are lost._

He burned the body the next morning. The smell of smoke filled the untended gardens, mixing with the soft smell of salt and winter roses.

And when He promised a way to make the pain end, the Father clung to it completely blind and uncaring. At last, his burdened heart is silenced.

The Halls of Reflection were an earie sight, silent and frosted and empty but for the weapon suspended above its pedestal. The weapon that had brought a kingdom to its knees was both a horrifying yet mesmerising sight, emitting a ghostly, icy glow. Footsteps, the clank of armour and the squeak of leather echoed from the dark walls as she and her companions advanced. Jaina's ears picked up a sea of soundless whispers as they drew closer; the thousand souls trapped within Frostmourne's icy grasp lingered in the shadows beyond her sight.

' _So you wish to commune with the dead?'_

And suddenly they were alone no more. The familiar face escaped her recognition at first. She pleaded with the departed paladin, gave voice to her deepest wishes despite his words of warning. She shut out the advice of caution, the voice of reason, refusing to relinquish her fading grip on the Light. Yet Uther's ghostly countenance was not alone in the room. Bewildered, Jaina caught glimpse of another presence in the room. At first she felt the curious stare that drew her attention to the ghostly form of a child seated on the stepped dais. Blue eyes though faded by the misty form, made her breath catch. A crown of violet roses crested the golden tresses. Shivering and fumbling for words, she questioned the paladin.

Uther's answer was vague at best.

' _It is not only wrath and hatred that make Frostmourne reap souls.'_

The fall of the Lich King came without fanfare or glorious heavenly retribution; it was a gruesome affair, a bitter clash between the Light and the Dark. There was a moment as the world held its breath, when the forces of Darkness were at their strongest and the champions of the Light lay broken before the Frozen Throne. But in the end, the Light managed, against all the odds, to break through.

The dying man saw his father, but it's not the aged face that he sought for. Desperately, the now redeemed sea green eyes searched the icy plateau for a matching pair. He found her hiding behind the ghostly form of the former paladin, his mentor, comrade and best friend. There were silent tears in her eyes; whether of relief or sorrow, he would not know. He wished to embrace the child, to shield her from the cruel world and wipe away her tears… and yet, it was in a fit of pure self-hatred and rage, that he realized he did not possess such strength.

He gazed up at her pale, young face, treasuring it for what he thought would be the last time. For where she was a child embraced by the Light, only the fiery chasms of Hell awaited him in the beyond. He attempted foolishly to discard the dreams and whims of what could have been. After all, there would be no redemption for monsters like him. His eyes veered up towards the dark northern sky, yet he could not see the stars; the light of his life was not there and he was left blind. It was with a shuddering breath, broken and defeated, cradled in the undeserved love of his father and gazing up at the ashen face of his daughter, that Arthas Menethil was finally free.

There was a room in the dark citadel, locked and forgotten amongst the aftermath of the battle. Whether it was by predetermined fate or by foolish chance that Jaina found it, she would never know. It was the simple fact of a locked door that drew her curiosity; most of the chambers so far had had no such hindrances. And locks were most used to hide away secrets. It was with a muttered spell and a soft click that she entered.

The room smelled of dust and forgotten time, and a faint sweetness lingered in the air. At first glance, she could tell that the room was different from all the others. Yes, there was the dark floor and the walls had been carved from black saronite like all the rest, yet there were also the soft hues of colour that lit up the otherwise darkened room. They came in the many tones of blue and white and pale silver of the bedspread and the curtains and the soft woollen carpet. There was a simple wooden desk pushed against the wall under the single high-set window, and a humble bookcase filled sparsely stood vigilant in the corner by the bed. It was none of these that drew the mage's attention, nor the pile of half burned candles and the pools of melted wax that marred the desk, or the piles of scribbled parchment and half-spent sticks of charcoal that littered the floor. A vase of flowers stood on the bedside table. Freshly plucked winter roses, with their pale violet, frosted petals already wilting.

She spied a book, its cover lovingly worn, yellowed pages a testament of the years. The faded parchment felt soft and crumbly under her fingers as she flipped through the pages. Some were marked with dog ears, others filled with little notes in a childish handwriting, crammed into the thin margins and in between the lines. The tome was familiar, one that she had read countless times in her own youth. It seemed the child had inherited her parent's gift. Jaina took her time shifting carefully through the drawings and squiggles of charcoal that littered both the desk and the floor. She fingered the pieces of heavy parchment like shards of glass threatening to crack and shatter. Whether it was minutes or hours later, it was where Wrynn finally found her, sitting huddled on the cold, unslept bed. He did not ask, though his face was of evident disbelief, nor did she explain.

The apple trees swing in the autumn breeze, branches heavy with the harvest's bounty. An unmarked grave of a man stands at the very back nook in the cemetery of Stormwind. The stone is new, yet the shine of polish has been kissed away by rain and wind. To Wrynn, it is a sign of victory. Or perhaps a memento of closure, a final tribute to an old friend, long past its proper time. He never asks her why she comes by every year. They both have their own shades and skeletons, she muses bitterly. Jaina simply stares at the grave of two, listening to the wind. Rose petals rustle, coming undone from the bouquet of blossoms. There are no ghosts here, only the phantoms that she walks with.

A late summer breeze rushes in through the open window, turning the pages of abandoned, open books and scattering unweighted papers as she sits behind her desk in Theramore. A vase filled with purple winter roses sits on a table by the window. The fragrant, sweet smell of the flowers fills the room, soothing the atmosphere. It is far too humid and warm this far south for them to bloom naturally; Jaina's magic keeps the purple petals from wilting and falling. The flowers are a bittersweet memory, a dream, something only she knows and keeps hidden behind gilded doors around her neck. The locket used to hold her picture. No one has ever asked her, and she doubts she'd ever tell.

Dreams are like flowers

Hidden in a secret garden

Beautiful and fragrant

Fragile and ephemeral

Petals of a thrice plucked rose,

A tale that comes in three parts:

A mother who lied to grief and regret

A father who sold his soul to the Devil

And a child who endured in the Light

Still, the wishes and the dreams remain

Wilted blooms in the garden.


End file.
